Ethereal
by spoonsoftea
Summary: "It is worse because their pity is not his to accept. Not in the way it should have been, had he been a different man. A better man. How he longs – how wretchedly he longs – to mourn her that way, as her husband, her widower. Another pain by which to be consumed." Carson/Hughes with a twist. AU. Dark, with hope. See inside for warnings.
1. Chapter 1

A bit of an experiment. Carson/Hughes, dark-ish AU.

Warnings: brief mentions of suicide, character death.

* * *

At the funeral, they offer their condolences to him in soft whispers.

'I'm so sorry, Carson.'

It is worse because their pity is not his to accept. Not in the way it should have been, had he been a different man. A better man.

And how he longs – how wretchedly he longs – to mourn her that way, as her husband, her widower. Another pain by which to be consumed. She is gone and he wants only to grieve her in peace (to tear out his heart, his soul, to _follow her_ ) but he cannot, because he is being handed sympathy like delicate crystal as though he owns it. As though he is entitled to it.

The pain is unbearable, agonizing, intolerable – and it is good because _he deserves it._

/*/

He opens his eyes.

 _She's dead_ , he thinks immediately. His chest caves in; his hands move over his heart but the action is useless. There is nothing to touch, nothing to be done with the crushing weight except to bear it.

He sits up. Pushes back the covers, squints in the morning light. Stands, heavy and lumbering. Leans back, feels the pull of old muscles. Reaches for his dressing gown.

 _She's dead_ , he thinks, and cannot stop thinking it, again and again as he brushes his teeth, combs his hair, dresses in his uniform, _she's dead she's dead she's dead_ ,as he goes downstairs to the servants' hall, sees that the breakfast is being prepared, the newspapers ironed.

Something light touches his hand and he jerks back. The cook looks up at him. Her eyes are rimmed with red and shining with unshod tears. Here is someone who mourns her, who grieves and weeps for her, who has just as much a right to condolences and sympathy as him. More of a right, perhaps.

 _She's dead_ , he thinks, and his chest collapses under the weight.

/*/

At the family's breakfast, he stands by the tea and sees the coffin in the ground.

He cannot bear to look at it nor to tear his eyes away; does not want to think of this wooden box in a black sea instead of blue eyes and amused smile and no-nonsense brows – but this is the last he will ever see of her, the closest he can be to her before she is buried in the ground, and he _will not_ waste a second of it. Even grey and empty and numb though this moment is (no sherry, no warmth, no camaraderie) it a thousand times preferable to nothing.

And then she is lowered into the ground, buried in the dirt under the dry recitation of _earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust_ and the eyes of God and the death of his fragile, sickly heart, and the moment is gone and _nothing_ is waiting. His mouth opens; he must give some voice to the enormity of the emptiness inside him, must somehow express this great rending within him –

'Carson?'

He blinks. The room swims into view. 'My lady?'

'Might I have some tea, please, Carson?'

When he swallows, his mouth is dry. He pours the tea with shaking hands.

/*/

The green apron is tied around his waist with the barest sliver of hope that he can escape his thoughts for the duration of the task. That he can direct his focus to the silverware for just these few dozen minutes. The briefest of respites from the torture of every other moment.

He steps inside, reaches for the cloth –

' _It's not cancer, no, it's a benign something-or-other, nothing more_.'

 _And oh, God, the sheer relief – the overwhelming, sweeping, enormous relief – he can breathe properly for the first time in weeks. She's going to be fine, she's_ alive _, she will live –_

Something catches in his chest and he can't breathe, can't make his lungs take air, knocks the silver aside as he clutches at his chest.

'Mr. Carson, are you alright?'

Something clicks, and he draws a tiny, shallow breath. 'Anna.'

'Are you alright, Mr. Carson?'

It is so absurd – so utterly absurd – to think that he could possibly be _alright_ that he feels almost hysterical for a moment. The pity in Anna's eyes impales him, and he hurries to his feet.

 _She's dead_. 'Yes, quite alright.'

He takes off his apron, trying to slow the desperate, jumpy movements of his hands, and strides from the room. The hallway stretches before him, long and narrow.

His own voice echoes after him.

 _Dashing away the smoothing iron, she stole my heart away…_

/*/

The chairs scrape as the staff stands. His head jerks, a feeble imitation of the authoritative nod he once gave, and they sit.

Can he do _nothing_ without her?

Her empty chair screams beside him. He can feel it banging at the edge of his sight, feels it in his eyes and his temple and his jaw, the space she ought to be slamming into him, demanding attention.

He does not look at it, but eats his dinner and lets the low hum of other voices pass meaninglessly over him instead.

'– Mrs Hughes –'

It is all he hears but his head darts up and his eyes pierce them all, looking for the culprit. They are frozen, all of them, staring at their plates in horror – even the proud Mr. Bates, the impertinent Thomas – all of them deferential to his grief and his fury.

It is Molesley, of course, with wide, panicked eyes. 'I'm sorry, Mr. Carson –'

The horror remains but the anger floods out of him, pressing behind his eyes. He grits his teeth. 'Carry on.'

The wait until dinner is over is excruciating, but by the time he flees to his pantry (heart hammering, hands shaking) his eyes are dry and the tears are gone.

/*/

At night, he goes to sleep in his bed, exhausted and drained, just tired enough that he does not think what terrors await him in sleep. His mind, after all, cannot help but grasp his worst of memories on this, his worst of days.

 _I'm sorry, Mr. Carson…_

 _Please – don't go – stay here, please stay –_

 _So sorry…_

 _Mrs. Hughes – Elsie – Elsie, please –_

 _Hands come to pull him away; there is a horrible noise, deep, choked gasps and shallow breaths._

 _It's him, he thinks numbly. The sound of his breaking heart._

He awakes drenched in cold sweat, chest heaving, hands shaking – and he remembers the nightmare that is not a nightmare, the truth come to haunt his sleep. He bends in half, sobs tearing from his throat, hands clutching at his chest.

/*/

He is coming down the stairs when he hears his name.

'I don't understand,' the new maid is saying, speaking to someone he cannot see. 'They weren't married, were they?'

Something in his head reels; he clutches the banister with a white-knuckled grip.

'No,' replies Anna, her voice quiet. 'But they might have been, one day.'

The words tear through his flesh and his throat closes around the pain, the staircase spinning around him. Distantly, he hears the new maid mutter something about it being a shame, he could use a little softening up –

He barrels into the hallway where the two are talking, sees Anna's fierce, indignant face, pulls in a furious breath – and finds there is nothing within him to sustain the anger, no wood for the spark. 'Go,' he says to the girl, finding no satisfaction when she scurries fearfully away.

Anna's look is long and searching.

'Yes, Anna?'

A pause; she sighs. 'Nothing, Mr. Carson.'

At breakfast, he thinks how very right Anna was. There is nothing. Nothing is left for him.

/*/

Her Ladyship is in the library when she stops him, the midmorning sun falling across her face.

'Are you alright, Carson?'

His chest seizes. He cannot, _cannot_ bear to discuss this. 'Of course, my lady,' he answers.

'I only want to ask if there's anything we can do to help,' Lady Grantham tells him, taking a small step toward him.

'I'm quite alright, my lady,' Carson answers stiffly, his heart pounding, praying wordlessly that _her_ name will not be spoken, that he will be spared the agony of it all.

'I know you cared for Mrs. Hughes very much,' she says softly, her eyes blue and wide and _wrong_ , _all wrong_ , and _how could he have let her go_?

'Is that all, my lady?' Carson says, strangled and hoarse. When she sighs, gives him a nod, he flees to his pantry and leans against the door, taking deep, heaving breaths until the dizzying, consuming panic within him has quieted to a simmer.

/*/

In the middle of the night, he hears her voice.

 _Charles_.

He bolts upright in bed, his heart thundering in his chest, throwing itself at his ribs like it knows she is out there.

But that isn't right, he thinks. She never called him Charles. He never gave her the chance.

/*/

'Mr. Carson,' says Mr. Bates in the hallway, 'I wonder if I can assist you with the silverware?'

Carson pauses. The memory of what happened before sweeps over him, drowning whatever remaining pride he has left. 'Yes,' he manages, his fist clenching behind his back. 'Thank you, Mr. Bates.'

He sees the look passed between Bates and Anna, who has appeared at her husband's shoulder – sees the wrinkled forehead, the raised brows, the tight lips – but he does not care. He doesn't see the point.

/*/

'…worried about him? He hasn't been himself at all.'

'I thought he would come out of it, to be honest. It's been weeks.'

'Robert, really. The poor man is heartbroken.'

'Perhaps he needs more time. Let's see how he gets on.'

'Oh, very well. But if he hasn't improved soon I think we should call Dr. Clarkson. He deserves our attention.'

Carson moves away from the door, his movements heavy. He adjusts his livery with trembling hands, fingers brushing against the weight on his crushed chest. It has not subsided. Pain persists even when he cannot.

 _She's dead_ , he thinks, mind flashing to the coffin being lowered into the ground. But it is different, this time – there is no rush of horror, no agony attached. There is only a whisper, a longing that he might know the inside of that coffin, too.

/*/

Her voice is a whisper in his ear.

 _Charles…_

The dreams come every night, now, only ever his name, always her voice, soft in his ear. Sometimes he feels her breath ghosting over his cheek. He gets out of bed when this happens, rubs his face with large hands.

 _Shh, Charles…_

He huffs a bitter, humourless laugh, wiping the sweat from his brow. His subconscious is too generous, he knows. He does not deserve to be soothed, even by a dream.

/*/

He sees His Lordship speaking quietly to Molesley shortly before dinner. He watches the exchange, watches Molesley's nod and the downward curve of Lord Grantham's mouth, and waits until His Lordship has moved off.

'Mr. Molesley,' he rumbles, stepping up behind the footman.

'Oh, Mr. Carson,' says Molesley breathlessly. 'His Lordship had a question about dinner.'

'What about it?' asks Carson.

Molesley is a terrible liar, worse even than Carson himself. His eyes widen. 'Just an inquiry about the wine, Mr. Carson.'

'What about the wine?' Carson asks, unable to put his usual force behind the question but angry nonetheless.

Molesley deflates. 'To check that you'd chosen the right one, Mr. Carson.'

Instead of shame or embarrassment, Carson feels quite calm. So this is it. The end of it all. There is nothing to be done with the pain except bear it, but he cannot do even that. That half-crazed thought from weeks before – he _can_ do nothing without her.

He ought to have known all along.

/*/

He spends the evening alone with the last few drops of the sherry. Everything is in order by the time the moon rises.

He exits his panty, locks the door behind him, and turns around.

Mrs. Hughes smiles. 'Hello, Charles.'

* * *

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Thank you to those of you who took the time to review - and for those who wanted to know how she died, this is for you.

Warnings for graphic content.

* * *

He exits his pantry, locks the door behind him, and turns around.

Mrs. Hughes smiles. 'Hello, Charles.'

/*/

Warmth floods through him and his chest heaves; he stumbles back, hits the wall. She doesn't move, smiling at him widely. 'I've missed you, Charles.'

Her hair is done up and she wears the black housekeeper's dress to which he was most partial, the one with the ruffles and bronze detail down the front. She is tiny, slight, only reaching his shoulder. She is precisely as he remembers.

'Impossible,' Carson gasps. His heart pounds furiously, knowing she is near.

She shrugs, her eyes sparkling. 'You know me – a woman of mystery if ever there was one.'

'You – you can't be,' Carson says, and her smile fades but doesn't vanish.

'I always did push you too quickly,' she sighs, turning away.

'Don't go,' Carson calls, strangled, but she gives him one enigmatic smile over her shoulder and turns the corner, gone.

/*/

For the first time since the funeral, his intrusive thought is not _she's dead_ or _she's gone,_ but _it wasn't real._

It is an easy path to follow. He is going mad. He hallucinated. His pain and sorrow and grief and regret have piled so heavily on his chest that they broke his ribs and pierced his heart, and everything that was poisoned and hysterical within it bled into his brain. It confirms what he already knows, what Molesley unwittingly told him earlier in the day.

So why does he have to _tell himself so_?

Why does he need _convincing_?

/*/

In the morning, he creeps about the servants' hall as if afraid someone will see the madness on his face.

'Are you alright, Mr. Carson?' asks Anna, looking at him, and he thinks there is something weary about her concern.

'Perfectly fine,' he answers briskly. 'Have you finished the linen rota?'

'Yes,' Anna replies, surprise lifting the lines from her face. 'Mrs. Hughes always –' she breaks off, eyes wide.

But something small – a tendril of something warm and soft – sneaks up his throat, and Carson is so astonished by this that he forgets to clench his jaw and feel pain. 'Very good, Anna,' he says, nodding at her as gently as he can.

When she is gone, he realizes with horror what it was. He is feeling _hope._

He spends the day telling himself that he is going mad. By the time the sun sets, he is cold and feverish and quite, quite ill.

/*/

'What –?'

'It's alright, Mr. Carson,' says a brisk male voice, and Carson pries open his bleary eyes to the serious face of Dr. Clarkson.

'Dr. Clarkson,' Carson rasps, struggling to sit up in his bed, but the doctor puts one hand firmly on his shoulder and presses him back down.

'Not just yet, Carson,' he says. 'You've fallen ill – nothing serious, but you must keep to your bed for the time being.' He turns around, and Carson sees Mrs. Patmore standing in his doorway. She is wringing her hands together. 'See to it that he gets some rest for the next few days,' Clarkson tells her, packing his bag. 'He should be fine by Friday.'

'Thank you, Dr. Clarkson.' Mrs. Patmore moves out of the door to let the doctor pass through, then follows him out into the hallway. Carson hears them murmuring together, and then 'since the funeral' floats through the door and he closes his eyes against the pain.

/*/

The illness ravages through him, and in states of half-consciousness Carson dreams wild, feverish dreams.

He sees _her_ at his bedside, holding a dark bottle in her hand. _You've the Spanish flu, Mr. Carson_ , she says, pouring out his medicine while he protests he doesn't need it. With a hand on her hip and a lip quirking with amusement she shakes her head in exasperation, opens her mouth to speak to him – a German soldier bursts through the door and levels his rifle at her, shoots her in the stomach – Carson surges toward her and sees the dark stain of blood spreading over her stomach, tries to stop the bleeding with wild hands, sinks his fingers into the bloody hole in her torso – but he looks up and sees that she's already dead, blue eyes empty and blank.

And then he is back in his bed and _she_ is standing beside him while he carves his own heart out of his chest and holds it out to her in cupped hands, dripping blood – _take it, it's yours_ , he tries to tell her, but she steps back in horror –

Then she is in bed – his bed, he sees, standing at her side. She looks up at him and something expands under the corner of her lip – it darkens and swells, and then another balloons on her neck, black and round, and then her jaw, her chest, her arms and hands and he stands watching as her body is deformed by bubbling black tumours that grow and spread until they take her over completely. He turns away from her misshapen form, nausea rolling through him – _help me, Mr. Carson_ , she pleads, but he ignores her, stares out the window, pretending he cannot hear her cries.

He sees her on her deathbed – pale and thin and coughing blood, wheezing painful breaths – a faceless doctor stands over her, proclaiming _tuberculosis_ and holding long silver instruments with sharp, frightening edges. Carson cannot remember what is real and what is not, remembers only the wheezing breaths and the fall of her head as she turns to look at him, lips red and eyes grey – _don't go, please stay_ , he pleads with her, and she coughs and rasps her apology and dies, right there in her bed, her small hand in his.

The illness runs its course eventually. Carson awakes, lucid and aware, in the early hours of Friday morning, before even the kitchen staff is up. He lies on sheets soaked with his own sweat and feels nothing.

/*/

'Ah, Carson. Glad to see you're feeling better.'

'Thank you, my lord,' Carson replies, inclining his head. Even to his own ears, his voice sounds empty.

'We were sorry to hear you'd been taken ill,' Lord Grantham continues, ruffling the newspaper slightly. He clears his throat. 'I believe Lady Mary visited you once, but she didn't believe you'd recall the visit.'

Numbly, Carson wonders what she heard. 'Unfortunately not, my lord.'

Lord Grantham hums and returns to his breakfast. Carson thinks he sees a look passed between him and Lady Edith, but nothing more is said.

/*/

A knock sounds on his door. Carson looks up from the wine ledgers. 'Yes?'

The door creaks open, and Lady Mary steps inside his pantry. Carson stands quickly. 'My Lady, how can I help?'

She seems hesitant; her lips are pressed together and she regards him with something like pity. 'I'm sorry to bother you, Carson.'

'You could never bother me, my lady,' Carson says. It may have even been true once.

'Only I went to see you while you were ill,' Lady Mary says softly. 'And I wanted to say that I'm terribly sorry about Mrs. Hughes, Carson. You obviously cared about her a great deal.'

The weight presses heavily on his chest. Carson sucks in a breath. 'I did.'

'I don't think I ever appreciated just how much,' Lady Mary continues. 'Carson, you've always looked out for me, and you helped me when – when Matthew died. I won't forget it. And if there's anything I can do for you, please tell me.'

Carson chokes back the bile that rises in his throat. 'There isn't anything, my lady. But I appreciate the offer.'

For one brief, terrifying moment, Carson thinks she is going to ask – he sees her lips part, the curiosity in her eyes – and he recoils instinctively from the words he knows are coming.

' _Did you love her?'_

But then Lady Mary sighs, disappointment flashing across her face. When she is gone Carson collapses into his chair, hands grasping at his chest.

/*/

Mrs. Patmore appears at his door bearing a pot of tea and two teacups. 'Do you have a moment?'

He steps aside and lets her enter, and they settle across the desk from one another. Carson watches as she fixes the tea and accepts his cup from her. He sips it slowly. He waits.

The tea is half-gone before he realizes he is waiting for nothing. Mrs. Patmore is not here for his words, but for his company. The company of someone who loved _her_ , too. She is searching for support.

'You shouldn't be here.'

She looks up, tears gathering in her eyes. 'You need help, Mr. Carson.'

'There isn't anything to be done.' Carson sets down his tea. His hands are shaking – that delicate crystal sympathy he was offered, those fragile words of pity – his shaking hands have dropped it all and shattered it.

'I miss her, too,' Mrs. Patmore says, a tremble in her voice as though it might collapse at any moment.

'That's enough,' Carson says, and in fact it is too much, far too much.

'You're always holding your chest,' Mrs. Patmore ploughs ahead, tears dripping down her cheeks, 'like she –'

'Thank you, Mrs. Patmore,' Carson cuts her off abruptly, almost shouting. He stands, his chair scraping along the floor.

Mrs. Patmore allows herself to be ushered from the room. After the door has closed behind her, Carson hears her muffled sobs and despises himself.

He turns back to his desk and suddenly, there she is – Mrs. Hughes frowning at him, reproachful and displeased – but his eyes shut and when they open again she's gone.

/*/

That night he dreams again, but it is different.

 _Charles…_

 _Wait –_

 _Yes, Charles?_

 _I – I need you._

 _I'm proud of you, Charles..._

 _Wait – don't go yet –_

 _Be patient, Mr. Carson. You needn't wait long…_

/*/

He half expects to be ill in the morning when he wakes, but instead, he rises with the sun.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed! Love to you all.

Warnings for serious suicidal thoughts. See below for notes.

* * *

He still cannot listen to the chatter over breakfast nor look to the empty place at his right, but this morning he manages to lift his gaze from his plate to see the faces of the staff. They do not notice; no one looks him in the eyes any more.

(Mrs. Patmore does, but he cannot bear to look in hers. They reflect too much.)

Carson knows how _she'd_ thought of them, the staff – she'd called them her charges, and he knew she'd thought of them as her family. When she'd been inclined to sentimentality, she'd called them _theirs_. Hers and his. As if Carson were capable of that impossible balance of authority and affection she so effortlessly expressed – as if his fondness for young Alfred was the norm and not the exception, as if his feelings for Anna and Mr. Bates were obvious and not tangled with layers of pomp and stiffness. As if Carson were even a quarter as able as she in that regard.

Though they'd run the house together (and oh, that is something he misses), the butler outranked the housekeeper in most affairs. Anything reported to her ought to have been reported to him, and she had not pushed that boundary simply for the sake of it. She'd pushed it because she had to, because those were the roles they'd occupied – she took care of them, her charges, not just listening but acting, too, when necessary – she hadn't told Carson everything, but he'd seen her with Mr. Branson, even after the lad had moved upstairs, seen her with Anna, when she'd been – through that whole mess, with Daisy and William and countless homesick maids and frightened hall boys, and still, _still_ , when she'd given an order, it had been followed. The worry that had prevented Carson from showing care, she had not even considered.

Even to Barrow she'd been gentle, compassionate – dare he say maternal? Stern, when necessary, but never cruel. It had not escaped Carson's notice that in all the schemes Barrow and O'Brien had wrought, all the plots for revenge and spiteful ploys and dangerous designs, in all of them Barrow had left _her_ untouched. He respected her. He did not respect Carson, and in the wake of – in the wake of her being gone, Carson can see why.

Carson was once prone to philosophy; since the funeral, he has been resisting even the slightest philosophical thought. And now, thinking so deeply about _her_ in ways he hasn't been able to, he knows why. His hands tremble as he butters his toast, gaze darting up to them, the staff – the thought that he has let her down in yet another way manages to tear a ragged new hole in the ruin of his heart.

/*/

He drops four pieces of silver that afternoon. Mr. Bates tells him he can do it alone.

/*/

The front of his waistcoat is creased. He frowns at himself in the looking glass and removes his jacket, folding it neatly and laying it over the back of his chair. He tugs at the bottom of his waistcoat, trying to straighten out the creases, then adjusts his tie.

A sudden memory flits through him – raised brows and blue eyes turned heavenward as he speaks in earnest about the importance of impeccable presentation, _her_ amusement quirking at gentle lips.

He catches sight of himself in the looking glass. His hands are at his chest, pressing at the heavy weight on his lungs as he gasps for breath, his fingers digging into his shirt and waistcoat, trying to grasp the tangled pain.

The black chasm within him demands to be felt, and Carson no longer cares about the wrinkles in his clothes or the discovery of how they got there.

/*/

In the afternoon, he comes across a small gathering in the hallway.

'What's going on here?' he asks, hearing his faint echo and knowing that once, he could have brought down the walls with his booming voice. (That booming voice he'd even turned on _her_ on occasion, always regretting it.)

Caught, they face him apprehensively. He feels strangely off-balance for a moment, waiting for a reaction that no longer comes – impatience, at least, or anxiety about whatever crisis was in store – but the sweep of sensation never arrives.

Mr. Molesley clears his throat. 'It's nothing, Mr. Carson – it's just that Anna needs to look at a bit of paperwork.'

'And?' Carson asks. His chest tightens – his body anticipates what his mind cannot.

Anna's voice is gentle when she speaks, as though Carson is a wounded animal she's soothing before breaking his neck. 'It's in Mrs. Hughes' sitting room, Mr. Carson.'

Ah, and now he _does_ feel something – a tide of nausea rolling through him, he might be sick right there in front of them, and his chest contracts suddenly and painfully so that air is expelled forcefully from his lungs. _No, no,_ he cannot go inside where it is _her_ , all her _,_ her things and her smell and her _presence_ , but he knows in the core of his being _no one else must ever go inside that holy place_ because they cannot worship properly and it will be soiled and spoiled and – it is _sacrilege._

'I'll get it,' he chokes, pushes past them before any protests can reach his ears, fumbles blindly for her sitting room before he can think about the agony he is walking into, unlocks and opens the door, steps inside –

/*/

'Here,' he says, twenty-seven minutes later, thrusting the paperwork into Anna's hands.

'Is everything alright, Mr. Carson?' she asks, eyes narrowed.

'Yes,' he replies shortly. 'Excuse me.'

He goes into his pantry but does not sit down. He stands in the centre of the room and feels the battle rage.

If he goes inside that holy place again, he may never come out.

It is the closest he has ever been to death.

And to _her._

/*/

At dinner, he serves the family efficiently.

'Are you in a hurry, Carson?' Lord Grantham asks him, the joke evident in the self-satisfied twitch of his lips and the amused crinkle of his eyes.

Lady Grantham frowns at him from across the table, and her husband looks down at his soup, properly subdued. Carson does not think he is required to say anything.

The ladies go through. His Lordship remains behind for a quick drink, quiet and thoughtful. He soon stands, preparing to depart. Carson watches, and suddenly the weight lifts from his chest, just for the briefest of moments but long enough for him to feel a large swelling inside of him.

'It's been an honour to serve you, my lord,' Carson says. His chest is heavy again, but that's fine, it doesn't matter. Lord Grantham looks up at him, brow furrowed.

'Carson, are you quite alright?'

'Perfectly, my lord,' Carson says. His voice is the strongest it's been in weeks. 'Perfectly.'

/*/

They are in bed, asleep. The moon is high. Carson takes the deepest breath he can manage and stands. He closes his pantry door behind him, letting his fingers rest against the smooth wood, tilting his forehead down. Deferential. Grateful.

The door to her pantry is locked, but he withdraws the key from his jacket pocket. It is his finest jacket made of the finest wool. His pocket watch is polished. His hair is combed. The key slides easily into the lock, and he turns it. It clicks, and he feels the way the door will open, allow him inside. The knob twists easily in his large hand, and Carson steps inside her sitting room.

It is beautiful in here. It smells just as she did: clean and warm and faintly papery. He takes a deep breath through his nose, feels the muscles of his shoulder relax, the tightness of his back drift away. It feels like her smile. He closes his eyes for a long moment, floating. His chest lightens; the creaks lift out of his joints. Soon.

He goes to her desk and sits down, allowing his eyes to fall shut. Just a few more moments.

'Charles.'

 _Almost_ , he thinks. The hallucination doesn't alarm him. Perhaps his mind is easing his way.

And then there is a soft touch on his arm and his eyes shoot open, a shout of alarm – he leaps back from the chair, heart racing, spell broken, everything crashing down. _She_ is standing beside him, behind the desk, blue eyes dark with concern. She shakes her head. 'You've not been taking care of yourself,' she says, something admonishing in her tone.

'You touched me,' he says. He hears his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

She smiles impishly. 'I did.'

'But you're – not real,' Carson says, trying to force it together, make it fit, forgetting everything he came here to do.

'That's not very kind,' she says, her lips twitching.

He opens his mouth to apologize and snaps it shut when he realises what he is doing. 'I'm going mad,' he says, breathing rapidly, staring at her because hallucination or no, he cannot bear to deprive himself of the sight of her.

She laughs lightly. 'Charles, really. Don't be ridiculous. You're as sane as any of us, I'd wager.'

Her laughter angers him, and he straightens. 'I went to the funeral,' he tells her, his hands clenching into fists. ' _Your_ funeral. I watched them put your body in the ground.'

Her smile fades, and he regrets his words at once. 'So you did,' she says softly. 'I'm sorry, Charles. I did try.'

The words – the apologies, the wide blue eyes – he moves to her, reaches out a hand and finds with earth-shattering relief that he can touch her. 'Don't apologise,' he says, and feels tears spill over onto his cheeks. 'I'm the one who ought to apologize to you.'

'Oh, Charles,' she says, reaching up a hand to wipe away his tears. 'It's alright, now.'

'How can it be?' He takes shuddering breaths, turning his face into her palm. 'You're gone, you're – I was with you when you –'

He does not finish but weeps silently as she takes him into her arms, he the great bear of a man who has not shed a tear for her until now. 'I'm sorry,' he weeps into her neck, 'I'm so sorry.'

She does not speak but cradles him gently, stroking his cheeks with tender fingers until his sobs subside and he slips into sleep.

/*/

He is still alive in the morning.

Something tiny within him is fiercely glad of it.

* * *

TBC

IMPORTANT: It's worth mentioning at this point that this story does not, in any way, depict healthy behaviour. It is not meant to romanticize suicide; regardless of what TV shows or movies or books have said, suicide is not the ultimate act of love. Carson is in a very dark, very unhealthy place after the death of Mrs. Hughes, and that is what I attempt to explore. My only experiences with mental illness are through friends and family; I do not pretend to be able to speak for anyone. If you have any questions about anything I have written, feel free to PM me.

On a lighter note, there will be happier moments ahead! Thank you for sticking with it. Reviews are love.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N I've survived exams and finally gotten around to updating. Thank you to everyone who reviewed, particularly the guest who asked if anything more was coming and prompting me to finish this up and post it! If I haven't replied to your review I'm terribly sorry - I'm back on track now, promise. I hope you all enjoy the new chapter, and thank you all soooo much for your support! Much love.

* * *

Carson sits on the edge of his bed, scrubbing his hands over his face. The morning sun peeks through his window, casting cool light over the room. He is still in his tails and trousers from the day before; he must have slept in them, for both are wrinkled and creased. Standing, he undresses and tosses his rumpled clothes in the laundry. He wonders what the maids will think of it, and feels the ghost of a smile tug at his lips.

The methodical process of dressing for the day is soothing. He buttons his shirt and fastens his braces, listening to the soft rustle of cloth and feeling the brush of wool against his skin. The smell of shoe polish wafts faintly as he slips into his shoes, and the scent of pomade fills his nostrils as he combs his hair. The floor creaks quietly as he moves over it, scattering particles of dust in the cool blue light of morning.

He buttons his cuffs and closes the wardrobe just as the knock to wake him sounds at the door. Turning, Carson smoothes one large hand over his front and feels a rapid thumping in his chest. His left hand flexes, the fingers straightening and uncurling twice before he folds his hand into a loose fist and tucks it behind his back. One last glance in looking glass assures him of his appearance before he moves to open the door.

The kitchen staff is just finished preparing breakfast when Carson arrives in the servants' hallway. Mrs. Patmore and Daisy are working smoothly, with quick, sure movements perfectly coordinated. Carson stays just long enough to ascertain that they are on schedule. He performs a quick check on the others to confirm that the newspapers have been delivered and ironed and the maids are upstairs opening the shutters and sweeping the rooms.

When he has determined that everything is running smoothly, Carson returns downstairs.

The door to his pantry is firmly closed. He makes sure his movements are not hesitant when he reaches for the doorknob and twists it. It opens without resistance, and he steps inside.

Mrs. Hughes is sitting in one of his chairs, sipping tea and flicking through one of his books. She looks up when he enters and smiles brightly, standing quickly and setting down her cup. 'Good morning,' she greets him cheerfully.

'You're here,' he says, and she laughs.

'I am,' she agrees, cheeks rosy and eyes bright. 'Come in – would you like some tea? I've only just brewed it.'

Closing the door gently behind him, Carson moves gingerly into the room, automatically accepting the cup and saucer she hands him. 'Sit down,' she says, still bustling about, so he lowers himself into the chair in front of hers. She returns with a fresh cup of tea for herself and blows over the surface as she settles back down.

'You're here,' he repeats.

'Indeed I am,' she confirms again, seemingly unconcerned by Carson's inability to grasp this fact.

'But…how?' he asks, numbly watching the familiar shift of her body and movements of her eyes.

She clucks at him, shaking her head. 'That's no fun,' she says. 'Try again.'

Opening and closing his mouth without making a sound, Carson tries to remember how to blink. 'Why are you here?' he tries at last, and she beams at him as though he is a schoolboy who's just asked a particularly clever question.

'For you, of course,' she says with a wide smile, taking another sip of her tea.

Carson takes a moment to process this. His brain feels sluggish. 'I see.'

She laughs again, standing and setting her unfinished tea on the mantle. Carson stands too, without being aware of giving his body to order to do so. 'No, you don't. But you will,' she tells him, and reaches out to touch his arm softly. Carson feels frozen as he watches her move.

'Now,' she says briskly, 'I'll not keep you from your breakfast. You've plenty to keep you busy today. Mr. Bates didn't finish the silverware yesterday, did he? You'll want to have that done for this evening, the Dowager is dining here tonight. And I'm afraid the new maid's corners aren't quite sharp enough, so you ought to discuss that with Anna.'

'But –' Carson says, without knowing precisely what he is objecting to.

'Don't forget the wine shipment, that's due this afternoon and you mustn't let Mr. Molesley hand that again – goodness knows what His Lordship would say.'

'I don't –' Carson tries again, alarmed when Mrs. Hughes moves toward the door.

'Come now, Mr. Carson,' she says, eyes sparkling mischievously, 'you've not got time to waste. We'll have plenty of time to talk this evening.' She pauses with one hand on the doorknob, looking at him expectantly.

Distantly, Carson feels himself nod. 'Yes.'

She beams at him, opens the door, and disappears from sight.

After that, there isn't much to do but follow her advice.

/*/

'Anna,' says Carson over the servants' breakfast, 'I'd like you to go over folding bed corners with the maids today, when you get a chance.'

'Yes, Mr. Carson,' Anna replies, sounding brisk and efficient and so like her predecessor that his stomach clenches and his chest tightens, but he sets the feelings aside.

'The wine shipment is due today, Mr. Molesley,' he continues, 'come get me out of the dining room if I'm not around.'

'Certainly, Mr. Carson,' Mr. Molesley agrees, his head bobbing once.

A bell rings behind Carson's head. 'That's Her Ladyship,' he says, glancing back, 'Miss Baxter.'

'On my way, Mr. Carson,' Baxter says, pulling herself away from conversation with Molesley and going for the door just as three other bells ring. Carson stands, listening to the scrape of chairs with a tingle of something familiar in his heart. The day has begun.

/*/

'I'll be going up to London tomorrow,' Lady Edith says at breakfast, folding the letter His Lordship had passed her and setting it down beside her. 'I've had a letter from my editor.'

'Can't he handle whatever it is?' asks Lord Grantham, glancing up only briefly from the newspaper.

Carson notices the way Lady Edith's mouth turns down at the corners. 'I'm afraid not,' she says lightly.

'What time will you go?' asks Mr. Branson.

'I'll catch the 9:00 train,' Lady Edith replies, taking up her knife and fork again to return to her meal.

Mr. Branson swallows a bite of food. 'I'll drive you down to the station,' he offers. 'There's a bit of land I want to look at in the morning.'

'And what about me?' Lady Mary asks, raising her eyebrows coolly. 'Were you going to ask me to come?'

Lady Edith opens her mouth, but Mr. Branson is quick to speak. 'Of course,' he says, forestalling whatever Lady Edith was going to say. 'I can drive back and pick you up.'

Lady Mary says nothing, but takes a sip of tea.

'Thank you, Tom,' says Lady Edith.

'What about this afternoon?' asks Lord Grantham, folding his newspaper and laying it aside. 'Have you any plans?'

'I'm calling on Granny for tea,' Lady Mary tells him.

'Oh?' says Lord Grantham, signalling to Carson for more tea.

'I don't know why,' Lady Mary says, attention focused on her plate. 'I expect I'll find out this afternoon.'

'Cousin Isobel's been away,' Lady Edith remarks. 'Perhaps Granny's a bit lonely.'

'Don't be ridiculous,' Lady Mary says irritably. Mr. Branson and Lady Edith exchange a glance, but both remain silent.

'Perhaps I'll stop in,' Lord Grantham muses. 'I'm walking down to the village this afternoon.'

'If you like,' says Lady Mary indifferently.

They finish breakfast shortly thereafter. Carson feels a bit bored by the end of it, and forgets to remember that it's been a while since he's felt anything about the family at all.

/*/

The morning passes steadily, with the usual fare. Mr. Barrow casts Carson odd looks every so often, as though he is on the verge of speech, but says nothing. Carson suspects that this has been happening for a while and he hasn't noticed, but if Mr. Barrow wants to keep his mouth shut for once Carson isn't going to argue.

He still can't quite manage to look Mrs. Patmore in the face, and instead relays messages to her through Daisy as though they are school children in class. Mrs. Patmore, too, tries to catch his eye, but unlike the under-butler, Carson knows precisely why the cook keeps casting him mournful looks, and he isn't having anything to do with it.

Fortunately, Anna seems content to follow Carson's lead. 'We've a bit of a break now, Mr. Carson, so I'm taking the maids upstairs to the Blue Room to review the bed corners, if that's all right.'

Carson checks his watch. 'Very well, but be quick about it.'

Anna nods and gestures to the maids. They hurry up the stairs, and the one at the back – a tiny thing with auburn hair – stirs distant, vague memories that tug at his lips with the echo of a smile.

/*/

He finishes polishing the silverware quickly; it hurts a bit, in his chest and lungs, and he has to pretend to hear the telephone at one point to get out of the room, but it's finished within the half hour and he decides to take a trip up the never-ending stairs to check on Anna. He doesn't like the look of a few of those maids, and Anna doesn't quite have the same sharp authority _she_ has.

(Had.)

The stairs have been taking more out of him recently, and he is breathing a bit heavily by the time he gets to the top, even though he hasn't even got all the way to the attics. The Blue Room is at the end of the hallway. He raises a hand to the doorknob, but hears his name and pauses.

'…can't keep up with it,' one of the girls is complaining. 'Doesn't speak a word one day, then turns around barking orders all the time the next!'

'It's not your job to keep up with it,' Anna's voice says coolly. 'Just keep your head down and do as you're told.'

'It doesn't make sense, though,' the girl argues. ' _You've_ not gone to pieces.'

'It's not for you to understand,' Anna replies shortly.

'Well, I think it's mad,' another maid announces imperiously.

'It's a good thing no one's asked you what you think, then, isn't it?' Anna says sharply. 'Your corners need work, Lillian.'

Carson hears the girls grumbling, but they fall silent and he walks away.

He tries to find something else to think about, and stumbles upon the silly thought that Anna may not have the same sharp authority as Mrs. Hughes did, but she's certainly well on her way.

/*/

Her Ladyship has had Dr. Clarkson and Mrs. Crawley over, and Carson approaches to see them off. Mrs. Crawley turns to him with a smile. 'Thank you, Carson,' she says, as he helps her into her coat. 'How have you been?'

It's a question Carson has come to hate. He certainly isn't going to be truthful ( _falling to pieces, cannot go on_ ), but lying makes him uneasy – he feels as though he is doing a disservice to _her_ , to her memory. He won't pretend she isn't missed.

 _Except._

Except that she isn't missed, not right now, not by Carson, because she is – somehow, in some way – _back_. He hasn't forgotten, no, no, of course not, but suddenly he _knows_ it, as though he has finally seen something everyone else has been pointing at that has eluded his sight. He nearly staggers but catches himself, clearing his throat. 'Better, thank you.'

Mrs. Crawley gives him a look of sympathy, and Dr. Clarkson nods uncomfortably, not quite meeting his eye. Carson holds open the door, his back straight, his gaze level.

He must get to his pantry. He knows she will be there.

/*/

Mrs. Hughes glances at the clock on his wall when he barrels in through the door. She is seated below the mantle, nestled comfortably in a chair, reading a novel. 'Charles?'

'You're here,' he says breathlessly. 'You're really here.'

She purses her lips as if trying not to laugh. 'I knew you'd get there in the end.'

She stands, then, in her black housekeeper's dress, auburn hair pulled back tidily to display small ears, blue eyes shining, beaming widely, and Carson thinks that he has never seen anyone so beautiful.

'May I –' he hesitates, hands trembling, but ploughs ahead, 'May I put my arms around you?'

Mrs. Hughes laughs, and the joyous sound of it beckons him like a beacon. She holds out her hands. 'Come here, you great booby.'

It takes four steps to reach her, and with each one Carson feels as though mountains are lifting from his shoulders. By the time he reaches her he is half running and he thinks he might be crying, but then she is in his arms and nothing else matters.

 _Elsie, Elsie, Elsie_. She is all he can think of, her warmth and her soft scent and her gentle body cradled against him for the first time, his arms wrapped around her tightly, his face in her hair. Her ear is pressed against his chest and he knows she can hear the wild thumping of his heart, steady and fierce and alive.

They stand there for many minutes, and she does not say a word nor move away, simply allows him to hold her until he releases a great shuddering sigh and loosens his grip slightly, leans back to see her face.

'Mrs. Hughes,' he begins, rather shakily, and she shakes her head at him.

'Come here,' she says, taking one of his hands. He follows her, not knowing where they're going but willing to follow her anywhere. She points him to the large armchair and he is reluctant to leave her so she almost pushes him down and then climbs into his lap.

He makes a scandalized noise before he can stop himself, something between a shout and a huff, and she laughs, poking his chest.

'Ah, so _you_ are still in there somewhere, Mr. Carson,' she says teasingly, settling herself more comfortably against him. 'I did wonder.'

He is so torn – this is wrong in every way, and yet – well, he has Elsie Hughes in his lap and he knows intuitively that he'd be colossally stupid to object to that.

She is still talking. 'Charles,' she says, 'I want you to call me Elsie.'

'May I?' he asks, heart leaping, and she smiles. He has never been this close to her face. Her eyes are a darker blue than he thought, and there is something quite endearing about her little nose.

'Of course,' she says.

He feels a bit awkward, then, not knowing what to do with his arms, but as she leans against his chest he finds them lifting automatically to rest around her waist. She tucks her head under his chin and as something balloons in his chest Carson thinks that he has never, ever, been this happy.

'Charles,' she says, 'I'm here.'

'You are,' he marvels.

'I'd like you to do something for me.'

His arms tighten around her, and he breathes her in deeply. 'Yes.'

'Talk to Mrs. Patmore,' she says gently, and he stiffens. 'Not now,' she amends, sitting up a bit to look at him. 'Only when you're ready.'

'But…' Carson swallows. 'But she can't see you?'

'No.'

He is silent for a long moment, and she sits patiently. 'Not now?' he verifies.

'When you feel ready,' she reaffirms.

'Very well.' He does not know when, if ever, he can face the broken-hearted cook who has not had her friend come back to see her, but he will do anything for Mrs. – for Elsie.

'Elsie,' he whispers, and she smiles, reaching up a hand to touch his cheek before tucking herself back into his arms. Her voice floats up to him.

'I'm here.'

/*/

When Carson goes to bed that night, he is looking forward to waking in the morning with delight.

* * *

I'd love a review if you have time!


End file.
